


II hate evverythiin about thii2 2iituatiion

by Bobsled_Hostage



Series: Erisol's Piratestuck Adventures [1]
Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Bulges and Nooks, Dubious Consent, F/M, Piratestuck, Sexual Slavery, Size Difference, Triple Penetration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 07:49:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5083747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bobsled_Hostage/pseuds/Bobsled_Hostage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her Imperious Condescension is a little fascinated by this troll who resists all her attempts at mind control, and is so vocal about how he hates everything about his situation, and yet stays right where she wants him (on her bulge).</p>
            </blockquote>





	II hate evverythiin about thii2 2iituatiion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SybLaTortue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SybLaTortue/gifts).
  * Inspired by [This Crack Ship is Out of Control](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/250030) by Syblatortue. 



You’re in the cloakroom, dozing comfortably in a pile of discarded clothing, when you’re roused from your sleep by an irritated looking sentinel and dragged before Her Imperious Condescension.  On spotting you, the irritated scowl on her face is quickly replaced with the predatory smile that signals your immediate future (not two mentiion your nook, and a couple other place2) is about to be full of towering, turgid, tyrian tentacles.   The throne room is empty except for the two of you.  She reclines in her throne, spreads her legs and beckons with an index finger.

“Get on my bulge, guppy”

No foreplay tonight (and 2he wwonders wwhy you don’t bother wweariin clothe2 anymore).  You groan.

“Do II havve two?”

“Shell yes, I gotta wind down after the parade of idiots”

She hikes up her skirt, part of the revolting poofy ballroom outfit she’s wrapped herself in tonight, revealing a lack of undergarments.  Her school of serpentine bulges is already sliding out of her sheathe.   You wish you weren’t used to this already.

“Come on, II’m thtiill thore from latht tiime, II’ve got better thiinth two do than be your bulge cothy”

“No ya don’t”

You can’t really argue with her there (iit wwould bee 2uiiciide, plu2 2he’2 riight).  The moment you’re within arm's reach, the Empress grabs you with an enormous, taloned hand, pulling you into her lap.  You obediently straddle her, facing away like she prefers.  The Condesce doesn’t waste any time (mu2t have been a long meetiin), a monstrous forest of tyrian-cold bulges blooms rapidly beneath you.  Inside a minute she’s fully engorged and extended, probing and slapping and slithering across your skin, smearing your thighs with chilly pre-material.  You try to keep your breathing even, waiting to be filled to capacity and beyond.  They slide against the sensitive parts between your legs and you shiver with anticipation in spite of yourself.  Without warning (really wwhat diid you expect), she swiftly crams your nook and waste chute with as much bulge as she thinks will fit, which as always is at least one too many.  

It hurts.  Every time you’ve told her she’s “two biig” she’s either laughed, ignored you or taken it as a compliment.  Some of her other fucktoys (prii22y bunch of 2eadwweller 2luts) have shown you stretches that are supposed to make it easier, but what do they know?  Ever since she got ahold of you she hasn’t been interested in one-troll-gangbanging anyone else (biitche2 can’t even touch wwhat you’ve got).  The Empress groans in satisfaction, holding your legs open with two gigantic, steady hands (liike you’re goiin anywwhere).  Your bulge is out, from arousal but more because with her filling you completely, there isn’t much space for it in its sheathe.  One of the tendrils slithers up and presses against your lips, and you obligingly grant it entry to your mouth.

Inhaling and exhaling in time with her undulations isn’t easy with her fucking your face.  You wish she wouldn’t stuff your mouth every time, would let you bite down and take it in silence (or moan liike the gutterblood wwhore you are) for once.  For now, the icy suckers grip the inside of your esophagus, you breathe through your nose and swallow at the correct intervals to get her as deep in your throat as she feels like going.  You’ve gone two (fuck ye2) nights without puking and you don’t want a repeat of the last time you spilled your nutrition cistern all over her genitals.  With your mouth full of briney bulge and the smell of the sea all around you, you feel like you’re drowning.  The Empress mutters fish puns and obscenities as you massage her royal dicks with your insides.

The bulges crammed in your nook have wrapped around one another, forming a big, cold, ropey mass that undulates against your walls, rubbing occasionally against your shame globes.  The bulge in your ass squirms and tries to twist deeper.  The one nice thing about this position, she can’t see your face, can’t see the way you tear up a little or how your mouth hangs slack (not liike you could close iit wwiith that monster jammed dowwn your gullet) when she twists inside you, or when one of her errant tendrils tangles curiously with your own bifurcated bulge.  You wrap one of your hands around one of her fronds, partly because you need something to hold onto and partly because you know she likes it, it’ll make her finish faster.  Her bangles jingle against your bracelets when she grabs your arm.

The bulges violating you squirm at a fever pitch, and you moan, mostly in pain (but not entiirely).  It’s too much, it’s always too much, you’re going to suffocate or she’s going to rip you apart from inside.  You struggle weakly, half trying to get away and half trying to press your shame globes down onto the gordian knot flagellating around in your cunt, mercilessly stretching your walls (remember wwhen you could only fiit one of them iin there?).  She holds you steady in her iron grip.

“Can ya eel me up inside ya, lil’ fish?”

She pushes her hips up, sliding the bulges up your nook in to the roots, and you cum with a howl, muffled by the slimy appendage still exploring your throat.  You squirm, weeping with release as your nook and waste chute clench tight around her tentacles.  They keep writhing inside you, and it would be almost unbearable if it didn’t feel so good.  Through the haze you feel her bulges start to swell, the Empress hissing and swearing and muttering someone else’s name as she spills inside you.  The one in your mouth gives a few spurts, then retracts to explode onto your face.  The ones inside pump you as full as you’ll go, and you can feel the excess running out to pool somewhere below you (not liike shed wwaste a paiil on your lowwblood ass).  You can’t see anything with your eyelids thoroughly coated, but you swear if you could see yourself you’d be swollen with her genetic material.  As you come down, she holds you tight and her bulges give you a few more pulses for good measure, sending more into you, onto your skin, and spattering audibly to the floor.  

The two of you sit, you panting and gasping for air, her sighing with relief.  You wipe your eyes and look down at your body.  The pitiful squirt of material emitted with your own climax was diluted out of existence by the torrent of slurry she painted you with, pumped you full of.  You’ll never understand how she produces so much, you can barely manage a dribble with all the pailing she subjects you to (maybe iif you 2tarted eatiin more you wworthle22 bulgeliick).  Her bulges slowly slide out of your battered orifices, leaving you sticky and gaping and humiliated and leaking her seed from every hole.   You feel empty and you ache everywhere.  Sore as your jaw may be, you complain, as usual.

“II’m ruined, II’ll nevver be able to havve normal thex again”

“Don’ worry about it small fry.  I ever get tired of prowwin’ your sea-weed lil' nook, I’ll just krill ya”

You think about making a scene, storming out of the room indignantly.  Then again, you sort of already knew what happened to the Empress’ playthings when she got bored with them.  You cough up a mouthful of pink spooge.

“Prowwiin?”

“Plowin’, dum-bass”

Really you can’t muster the energy to do more than lean back against her, dripping all over her lap (2oiilin her and lettiin her 2ubliime genetiic materiial miix wwiith your revoltiin lemon-liime goop) while the two of you retract.  Soon enough she’ll be ready for another round, or she’ll dump you on the floor, and from there you can lie there for a while and eventually slink back to your pile (and maybe wwa2h up you fuckiin dii2gu2tin mess). 

She flicks one of your horns and you flip her off.

**Author's Note:**

> Smut for SybLaTortue, whose drawings entranced me with this wacky pairing (and who wrote like half the dialogue in the tags)


End file.
